Life of a Villain
by Seraya7
Summary: Unfinished- a look at Mozenrath's childhood.


Power.

I think about it often. Perhaps too often, one might say. But power is the force behind the world. Whoever has power over other has them under his control. If you don't have power, you might as well be dead.

It seems silly. Why should I bother with trivial tasks? I already know I am the most powerful sorcerer the world has ever seen. Of course, I could wish for more. I could ask to be a god. But no, a god is out of touch with the reality and pleasures of the real world. A god lives forever and never changes, while humans live for an instant and change constantly, and who has the power? The humans. They have the choice, you see. They can choose their life, and whether or not they need gods. A god, on the other hand, is fixed forever as he began, and depends on the humans for belief and manpower. In the end, the pawn holds more power than the king.

This is why I could never want absolute power. It would end the challenge, and with it would come boredom and the loss of humanity. But great power on the scale of the earth... yes. The strongest magic is my power. Intellect is my power. As well as—dare I say it—leadership? Determination, a will for conquest, a strategic mind—these are my powers. But others always have more.

It's not that I want to rule the world. No, that would be rather... distasteful. All I want is, well, the portion of the world I want. The Seven Deserts, lands of my home, my kingdom, of magic, cities and trade. I want to be able to succeed in whatever I try... not instantly, of course, for where is the fun in that?

I suppose it is that as long as I do not rule the Seven Deserts, there is sure to be someone who will rise against me. When I rule them, it won't just be that no one dares to stand against me, but no one would want to.

How can I possibly rule if I do not have the power?

How can I be the most powerful if there is _someone_ who always defeats me!?

...but I digress.

Power.

My whole life has been spent in search of it. And now, when I finally seem to have it, there is always some way it defeats me. Either someone _else_ has more, or my own...

That's ridiculous. It's _my _power, not the other way around. If there is a price I must pay, I will pay it. Power is everything.

...Why is it that _some_ people pay nothing, and gain everything?? _It's not fair!_

It just isn't fair. I have struggled and fought for everything I have. It is mine by right! Why...?

Wondering like this is useless. The only way to solve this, obviously, is to secure more power for myself. When I have as much as I need, I will destroy those who stand against me and prove that all real power comes with a price.

"All power comes with a price."

A pale hand cupped in front of my face, and a golden flame leapt from the palm. I stared at the magical flame. Wonderful. Tiny golden sparks danced across my vision, radiating power and light.

"Are you paying attention to me?"

I tore myself away from the flame. "Yes, Mother," I replied quickly.

She smiled a thin humorless smile—she didn't believe me for a second. "Good. Then you'll recall what I just told you?"

"All power comes with a price." I recited dutifully.

"You see?" With the hand that did not hold the enchanting flame, she gestured at the grand hearth, burning moments ago, now cold and dark. "To create a magical flame, the simplest method is to extinguish a mundane one. It has to come from somewhere, whether from ordinary objects, magical creatures, or one's own life force. It is impossible to create something out of nothing."

I nodded idly; I had received similar lessons every day of my life. Ah, my mother. So beautiful and wise. I never even knew just how unique she was—with her pale skin, dark curling hair, and immense magical talent, she was like no one else in all the Seven Deserts. Not surprising, really, because she came from another land. But where, I may never discover.

I examined my own hand, paler and smoother than any other children I'd seen. I knew I had magic talent. Could I create a flame like my mother's? I closed my eyes.

There was power, deep within myself. Plenty of it. There was no need to draw on outside forces for help. I seized that power and held it, picturing a bright green flame sprouting from my fingers...

My eyes snapped open. "I did it!" I cried, thrusting my flaming hand high above my head. I knew I could do it, I'd always known. Silly me for never trying before.

"Wonderful!" my mother exclaimed, grasping my free hand in hers. It was shockingly warm to the touch, and as I frowned in confusion, she gasped and laughed. "Your hand is ice-cold. Dear boy, you have used your own warmth to fuel your fire." With a whispered word, she vanquished both our flames, and the fire in the hearth roared to life again. "Why did you do it that way when there are candles you could have used?"

"Because..." It made no sense. Why use something else's power when you have your own? "...I guess I don't know how to do it any other way."

She favored me with another smile and settled back on her cushion. "Then I shall have to teach you."

I ignored her. Over the faint crackle of flame and the sound of her voice, there was something else. A strange high-pitched roar. The strong, choking smell of uncontrolled fire. Screams. With a hollow dread I stared out the window, out at the full white moon and stars, slowly being blocked from my view by the rise of a billowing black cloud... of smoke. I didn't know what it meant, but... it scared me.

My mother noticed my stare. "What is it?" She rose, turning slowly, and walked as if in a trance to the window. I could not see her face, but her stilled so completely I wondered if she had turned into a statue.

Finally, she spoke. "Mozenrath. Quickly. You must run. Hide in the cellar."

I stared at her. Why would I want to go in the cellar? And more importantly, why was she telling me to run, when she had always taught me that you must never show cowardice? "Mother?"

"Now!" she bellowed, whirling around and ushering me out the door.

She never raised her voice at me. I ran.

But I would not hide in the cellar. At least I had to see what was going on, and why my mother was being such a coward. I darted as fast as I could through our home, my inexperienced muscles screaming in protest all the way, down to the kitchen and out the servants' door.

The night was far too dark, as the thick black smoke covered everything. I could still smell it, but there were no flames in sight. I had to stop myself from fumbling for the door behind me.

I would not be a coward. I would not hide or run. I would find whoever was doing this and fight them.

So once more I ran, deeper into the chilled blackness. My feet ached from the stones that cut at them and the strange coldness of the sand, but I would not stop. I couldn't. My mother was so powerful. Why would she have me run? She couldn't know what she was doing. I did. I would defeat them.

The smoke did not go away. As I ran I watched my feet, afraid that in their numbness they would bleed and break. But instead I noticed the sand, the cool light sand I'd seen everywhere, always, turn black. I didn't realize what I was seeing at first. Black grains, then black mounds, black dunes, continually more until it was all black.

Only then did the smoke begin to thin, and the night to reappear.

I drew in a breath. Now I had reached the front gate, and in front of it were our attackers, a few men on horses.

A few men! And with my mother so powerful, it should have been child's play for her to destroy them. But instead she cowered, hidden within our home. I couldn't understand it. I wanted to run out into the open, to call to my mother to fight for what was ours, but I didn't. I hid behind a rock where I could see and not be seen, just as much a coward as she.


End file.
